


J'ai cueilli cette fleur pour toi sur la colline

by noseriouslythisis



Series: As where some flower lay withering on the ground [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pining, Stickhandling 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 20:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noseriouslythisis/pseuds/noseriouslythisis
Summary: Even if he didn’t want to think about it, Jo had always loved Nate. It gets harder to ignore when he starts coughing up flowers whenever he thinks about him.





	J'ai cueilli cette fleur pour toi sur la colline

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, part two. Here you go, R.

Jo had been sneezing pollen all through his last year of juniors. At first he thought he was going crazy, but no. Pollen.  
He knew what it meant. He hadn’t, at first but. Early stages, he’d done some research. It was impressive how long it took to get bad, really. Maintaining contact and staying friends had helped, possibly. But, he had also been so young. A child, really. Not ready to process what love meant. And so he went about his life. Sneezing pollen and working like hell to get out of juniors.

Him and Nate had been glorious, in juniors. Together all the time, lighting up the Q. Being on Nate’s line felt like flying. Looking back, Jo could see the infatuation. In his own eyes, in Nate’s too, perhaps. Puppy love. But after the draft, they had had to go their separate ways. Nate, to be beautiful in the NHL. Jo, to fight to even get there.  
It was easier, kind of, when he finally made it. They saw each other when their teams played, met up occasionally during off season. Still texted, all the time. But when you’re 19, distance is… a lot. Almost insurmountable. Especially if you were a dumb, msocially inept, hockey playing 19 year old. They grew apart, a bit, just a smidge, enough to notice the cracks that were forming. Through their friendship, yes, and also through his heart.

Tampa was….Tampa was wonderful, in a way. The team was great, Jo loved them so much, and they loved him back. Enough to distract him from the creaking of his soul, the puffs of pollen he still couldn’t hold back, the occasional petal landing on the floor after a particularly heavy shift, a bad game, the day after Nate had called and told him about someone he had been hooking up with. Casually, he had said. Jo remembered, the way Nate would distance himself, the few times they had hooked up with each other, more kissing than anything else. The first time and the last. Jo remembered, and almost choked on the petals that he coughed out like they were thorns, all morning after that call.

Syracuse had been a shithow, for so many reasons, most of them his own fault. It grated to know and to feel that you didn’t fit a system. Nothing personal. He hated that phrase. He left Syracuse for St.Agathe, and spent a week on the phone with Nate. Soothing his heart like a balm, even if he had to hide almost two full trash bags containing his bleeding heart and half a rose bush from his parents.

The World Cup. Playing with Nate again. Falling into their old banter, giving interviews in French while Nate pretended to not understand anything, as if he hadn’t badgered Jo about tutoring him every single day, back in Halifax. As if he hadn’t listened to him spinning tales about magic and bright futures and how Nate’s hair was really dumb, fluffy like a baby duck and just as adorable. His accent was still ridiculous, sure, but he understood. He understood enough.

The World Cup was a couple of weeks living in each other’s pockets again. Two weeks of napping together, like they used to do. Two weeks of reading each other’s minds, on the ice and off, and the agonizing heartbreak of having to go separate ways again afterwards, not knowing if the contact would hold out, this time, be as steady as he wanted it to be.  
Jo had always craved the sweetness Nate was capable of, even if he didn’t like to acknowledge it. Sometimes he wanted to curse at every mention of Crosby, at every poster, every interview. He had given Nate advice, and in turn all Nate ever did was retreat further. Playing against the Penguins had become a special kind of ugly, after that.

He got to feel some of that sweetness for two weeks. And then it was taken away again and he knew, he knew he wouldn’t get good morning messages as sweet as maple syrup in place of the honeyed morning hugs and kisses on the cheek while they were in the same space again. Jo didn’t understand why they couldn’t have both, why the distance was so necessary. It was stupid. Ridiculous. Enough to make him cry, afterwards. Going from warmth and sunshine to Tampa rains and loneliness, alone, alone, alone, uncertain if he was allowed to call, so soon after they had seen each other in person. Hiccuping sobs that ended in a coughing fit so bad it made him lightheaded, surrounded by blood red geraniums.

That season was...it was. Better, in a way, because the contact was better. They talked again, really talked, the World Cup having mended some of the old hurts. Skyping, at least once a week.  
The coughing was getting harder to ignore, though.

When the trade was announced, Jo had been on his way to the golf course. He got the call, and thanked them for the opportunity, and collected himself enough to get to downtown Montreal, to a press conference, to accept his new Jersey and sign his contract. He was staying home. He was coming back home. He got to be in Montreal, his true home base, and he knew that the trade hadn’t purely been because of on ice issues, even though he had asked for it. He knew that the decision was made easier for them when they saw him, after a bag skate, sat shaking on the locker room floor and covered in flower petals. He heard the comments, after the trade, suddenly coming out how he had been a disruption in the locker room. He knew.

Jo hadn’t been prepared for Nate to turn up at his door, two days after the trade. They had talked, on the phone, afterwards. He thought that had been it. But there he was, standing in front of Jo, in person, like he hadn’t seen him in months. The hug lasted a long, long time.

They trained together, for a while. Jo had to stay in Montreal for PR related things, but they made do, taking day trips and even going out fishing, because Nate loved it, and what was Jo supposed to do, faced with such enthusiasm.  
They played with the dog, and cuddled on the couch, and Jo could almost taste the potential.  
He was fine, for a few days. He knew the cough had been getting worse, had waved Nate’s concern off, mumbling about the summer flu and hiding away the evidence, as he’d always done.

  
That is, until Nate brought up girls. Casual, like he didn’t know Jo had never looked at them, too busy looking at Nate. Talked about settling down, finding someone, as if it were the most obvious thing, even though they were barely adults. After all the years of struggling, it was the last straw. Jo set the weights he’d been bench pressing on their hooks with shaking arms, looking up at Nate bent over him, confused as to why his spotting duties had been cut short, and let the thorny tangles that had been fighting to be released for a long, long time, climb up his trachea. He coughed, and coughed, and dimly registered Nate’s alarmed shout, and let himself fall into oblivion. Escaping the concerned eyes and grasping hands that would never give him what he wanted. Not in this timeline.

———x————x—x————x———xx——————x-x-x—x—x-x——xxxx-

He woke up. He kind of hadn’t expected to. He was lying on the gym floor, still, on his side in the recovery position. Nate was bent over him, kissing his cheeks and begging him to wake up. His face was wet. A cursory swipe revealed the dampness as a mix of blood and tears.  
When Nate saw him coherent, he looked so relieved. Eyes red and hands fluttering, he helped him sit up and drew his arms around him, a sideways kinda hug.

“Why didn’t you tell me? It’s obviously gotten bad, I could have helped you, found whoever it was and smack some sense into them…” Jo burst into laughter at that. Nate was the least violet person he knew, never mind his tendency to repress emotion. “What, you were going to punch yourself in the face? Good luck with that”  
Stunned silence.  
“Me?”  
“It’s okay. You decided boys were too risky, wouldn’t look at me anymore. I’ll be fine.”  
Nate looked at him dubiously, devastated. “Is that what you think? I thought you didn’t want me anymore, and yeah, I was trying to be careful, but...I’ve always loved you, how could I not?”  
Jo… Jo didn’t quite know what to say to that. His chest felt light, though, his lungs unconstricted for the first time in years. No more vines squeezing his rib cage, no more petals forcing their way up. It was freeing, made him feel like he was invincible. He knew it wouldn’t last, so he took advantage of it, this uncaring happiness, the joyous numbness, and drew a deep breath, and another, and kissed his stupid, silly boy who had brought him so much heartbreak. He got kissed back, deeply, and could feel the gold fill in the cracks, melding him whole again, stronger than before.

**Author's Note:**

> Title means “I picked this flower for you on the hilltop”, which is the first line of a Victor Hugo poem.


End file.
